The Death of Vivek Oji(58)

Kavita stared at her husband as if he was acting out her own confusion through the lines of his body. She told him their theory—that their son had died in the riot, had been beaten and stripped—and it was only then that the heat finally drained from Chika’s body and he collapsed next to his wife, his face like ash. Kavita knew the images that were playing in his head, knew that his anger at Vivek’s secret was washed away by the realization that someone else had killed him for it. At last, Chika dropped his head on Kavita’s shoulder and wept. She put her hand to his cheek, to feel the wetness there, and murmured words she couldn’t remember later.



* * *



—

That night, in bed, Kavita looked up at Chika from where her head was resting on his chest. “He was calling himself Nnemdi,” she said.

Her husband’s body stiffened.

“How did he know?” Kavita asked.

“How did he know what?” said Chika.

“That that was almost his name. Ekene said he never told him.”

“When did you talk to Ekene about this?”

“Before you came home. I called him. I wanted to know how Vivek knew that name.”

“You told Ekene?” Chika started to sit up, anger stirring again in him, but Kavita pushed him down.

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “I didn’t say anything. I just asked him if he’d ever told Vivek the name and he said no. He said the name was for Mama, because of Vivek’s scar. I always wondered about that.”

“Ekene was being superstitious. He should know better than to repeat such nonsense to you. Forget the whole thing.”

“But how did Vivek know?”

“I said forget it, Kavita!” Chika pushed her off his chest and turned over on his side, away from her.

She waited a little bit, then slipped an arm around him. “I want to visit his grave tomorrow.” She felt his muscles loosen and he gave her a brief nod.

“Go to sleep, nwunye m,” he said. “Enough of this name business.”



* * *



—

The next day, they went to the village house and stood at the foot of Vivek’s grave, with its large rectangular gravestone. Kavita couldn’t help but imagine, for a second, Vivek’s grandmother reaching out from her grave next to his, through her casket, through the soil, splintering the wood of his to take his hand. At least he was not alone. They were together, the generations before and after, gone from the here and now, leaving the rest of the family floating in life.

Kavita knelt down and ran her hand over the inscription. Something felt off, wrong. “It’s our fault,” she found herself saying.

Chika looked down at her. “What’s our fault?”

“That he died like that, like an animal.”

Her husband crouched down next to her. “Mba, it’s the fault of those hooligans who did it.”

“He couldn’t trust us,” she continued, ignoring him. “He was hiding in everyone else’s house as if he didn’t have a home. We didn’t know anything about our own child’s life.”

“That wasn’t Vivek. He was sick, Kavita. He was mentally unwell. That’s why he was dressing like that.” Chika put a hand on her shoulder but she shook it off.

“Stop saying that!”

“He was sick. He just needed more help. We should have seen it.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Kavita stood and rounded on her husband. “We don’t know anything about him. You just had this your idea of who your son was supposed to be, and you were so busy having your affair that you missed out on his last months on earth. We can’t keep insisting he was who we thought he was, when he wanted to be someone else and he died being that person, Chika. We failed, don’t you see? We didn’t see him and we failed.”

Chika’s face blanched as soon as she mentioned the affair. His first instinct was to deny it, but there was no redirecting her away from the truth. He could only watch as she got to her feet, rage darkening her face, and stormed to the back door. There was a garden hoe lying there, and in a flash she grabbed it and marched back to the headstone.

“What are you doing?” he said, trying to step in front of her. But Kavita drove right past him, and then she was raising the hoe, slamming it into the headstone, the flat metal sparking against the stone.

“Kavita, stop it!”

She swung again and again, ignoring him, and Chika just stared, too shocked to try and restrain her. Kavita was grunting and crying—more in anger than grief, it felt like—and the gravestone chipped under her onslaught. She was aiming at the inscription now, and he cringed as he realized it.

“We—can—at—least—get—one—thing—correct!” she snarled between swings. Tiny cracks blossomed across the surface of the gravestone; chips littered the grass. Chika took a step back to avoid one flying into in his eye. He folded his arms and decided to let her get it out of her system. She swung until her arms were tired, then stopped, panting; the long handle of the hoe hung from her hands, banging gently against her knees. Her face was covered in sweat and her hair stuck wetly to her cheek.

“Are you finished?” he said. There was a small wound in the gravestone now, open and fragmented around the edges. Kavita whispered something and Chika took a step closer. “What is it?” She looked up at him and he wrapped his arms around her, the pain in her eyes wild and pounding. He was surprised when she didn’t pull away.